


Chippings

by SetteLupe



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Universe, Drabble Collection, Fanart, Hint Fic, Images-based stories, Inspired by Fanart, other tags added when needed, story setting different for each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SetteLupe/pseuds/SetteLupe
Summary: A series of Images-based stories that you can read as they are, or use as a cue for longer and elaborate fanfics. Each chapter has a different setting and characters.Related images are also available as a fanfic inspiration, let me know if they inspire you: I would be very happy to read them!





	1. Well...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for my bad English, I'm trying to improve my knowledge of the language, but for now, this is the maximum I can do ... T-T ... I need someone who can translate my stories!

**Chapter 1:  Well…**

* * *

* * *

\- Well.... another night spent wandering around the rooftops I see...

\- Uhm? ... no.

\- Then, fall asleep perched on _my favourite_ stool and bothering me while I work for Brotherhood, is your new hobby... Annoying and stupid.... Yes, in this version I could believe.

\- I wasn't sleeping, I was only resting my eyes. Yawn...

\- Sure... such a childish novice... Next time I'll wake you up raising the stool from under that your stupid ass. Now, you're going to sleep: I've prepared a room for you. You look like a cat who spent the night in a kennel.


	2. L'Aquila, il Falco e lo Scricciolo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether to write something more complex with this "intro" or not. Let me know if you are interested or if you have any suggestions ^.^

** Chapter 2: L'Aquila, il Falco e lo Scricciolo **

 

 

 

It was Ezio to call him " _Scricciolo_ " for the first time, when they were still children, and since then the nickname was left; also because Kadar seemed to have not inherited anything from the massive father except the soft brown tones of the skin and the shiny black hair.

His eyes and smile were his mother's legacy, as well as the fragile and minute constitution, the jovial character, and the passion for studying ancient history.

 

Malìk, though sharing some somatic traits with his brother, seemed to be his exact opposite: with a shadowy and pragmatic character, not inclined to frivolousness and often abrupt ways, he was an exact copy of the father with his broad shoulders and his dark eyes.

 

Although he did not share any blood tie with Kadar and Malìk, whoever knew Al-Sayf's family always included a third component among the sons of Faheem and Aghar: Altaïr, the armed phalanx of the "small commando incursors" as Faheem called them often when they were children. If Malìk barked a lot but biting little, Altaïr was the one who always had a place in the front line when it was bash some heads.

The relationship he tied to the oldest of the Al-Sayf brothers was one of the most crappy that could be seen: Normally silent and stingy, Altair became a surprisingly talkative adversary when he verbally fought with Malìk (an event that happened with exasperating frequency) ; yet, despite the constant bickering and occasional shouts, there was nothing that one of them would refuse to do for the other.

 

Though the latter feature of their relationship escaped many of those who watched them, it should not have been ignored by the Mentor of the Levantine Assassin Order: Rashid Al-Sinad had aroused little surprise and a considerable amount of objections when he had put the two boys in the same team at the end of their novitiate, but his only eye had turned out to be more acute than many of the councilors and masters of the brotherhood, as demonstrated by the long list of missions brilliantly completed by the two.

 

Kadar, on the other hand, had never even passed the basic training: Al-Mualim had perhaps broken his heart the day he told him he did not consider him fit to become an Assassin, but he had probably saved his life . After a period of compelling discomfort, the young man had recovered and he had discovered what might have been his vocation since birth: archeology.

 

Nearly six months since the beginning of his first year of university, Kadar was already the best among the students of his course, as well as the favorite of many of his professors.

 

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of some of the campus boys.

 

Kadar's main problem had never been, even during his training as an Assassin, the tactic, or the ability to keep his wits: they were strength, coordination, and physical strength to be deficient in the boy. And this exposed him to the bullies of the bullies in a rather steady manner… well, this had actually happened only as long as Kadar had not learned the art of attracting the enemy to the place where, as a predator, he would turn into a prey.

 

Although neither of them seemed to be particularly inclined to tenderness, both Maliki and Altair had a deep affection for their little Scricciolo and although they disagreed practically with any subject, about the treatment to be reserved to those who mistreated Kadar, they never disagreed.

 

This lesson, along with how young Al-Sayf was not a prey to their reach despite appearances, would be learned in the most dramatically empirical way by Shalim and his brother Shahar.


	3. Kindred Spirits

**Chapter 4:**  
  
Kindred Spirits

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

If he reviewed his existence, Altaïr realized that there were few occasions in which he could really freely choose the course to be given to his own existence. He’d almost always been led or even forced to make certain decisions rather than others by people or events in progress, and this was true from the decision of his entry into the Order of Assassins until his promotion to the rank of Grand Master, happened a few days before. It wasn’t correct to say that he regretted the course of his life: he was proud of what he had become and of the results he had achieved, especially because he had succeeded with his own strength. However, especially in the last days, it happened that he felt a bit ... harnessed: like a horse that constantly bites a bite too severe.

He’d accepted his new responsibilities willingly, committing himself as usual to excel in the task entrusted to him; he had tolerated the endless series of ceremonies that had accompanied his appointment, thousands of formality and unnecessary rituals of which he saw no other use except to bring him to exasperation, but now he really needed to take a break.

 

The opportunity arose when one of the counselors pointed out how unseemly it was, if not indecorous, that the Grand Master still didn’t have his own personal horse: it was a question of image.

Usually the Assassins didn’t have their own steeds but they could choose, among the dozens of horses owned by the Brotherhood, the most suitable for their needs according to the mission they had to undertake; obviously almost everyone had their favorite horse, with whom they established a particular relationship and that they preferred to others, but they never reached an exclusive possession of the animal. Even Altaïr had followed this custom, until a few days before; but for the Grand Master and the higher-ranking Dai, the custom foresaw that there was a horse reserved exclusively for them; usually it was donated on the day of the official investiture, but the particular circumstances of Altaïr's ascent had forced to postpone that part of the ceremonial.

 

The new Grand Master had taken advantage of the opportunity, managing to convince the council to give him a break from the ceremonial to choose himself the animal. He’d to agree to take Masyaf's stable-manager and two councilors, as well as four "bodyguards" with him, but it was also a reasonable condition: it was better not add too much trouble to what he was already creating with the first steps taken to change the modus operandi of the Assassins. He could postpone a full-scale escape by a few weeks.

 

Among the many changes he was struggling to implement, one of them in particular was dedicating time and energy: Altaïr didn’t intend to hide himself behind a desk, managing the Brotherhood perched on top of his rock as Rashid Al-Sinad, with only a partial view of the world and its changes. He’d learned the immense value of direct information gathering and believed that the Brotherhood needed to change and evolve with the population it was supposed to protect; to be able to guide his confreres in this new direction he needed to keep himself in business as if he were a simple Assassin, experiencing the world and its changes, living its streets and its markets, listening to it with his ears and seeing it with his eyes.

 

It was also for this reason that he intended to personally choose his new steed: he had listened with much disappointment the two counselors chosen to accompany him, explain to him and to the stable-manager what were the characteristics to be evaluated in choosing the new horse, noticing immediately how much part of the needs of the two men concerned exclusively the visual impact to be obtained in case of an official appearance (and by " _official appearance_ " they seemed to mean only frivolous and useless events such as a hunt to entertain diplomats and political allies or a parade for the roads of the fortress). None of these activities concerned Altaïr, adamant about the necessity of obtaining a horse that was instead primarily an animal to entrust his life during a mission, and he therefore considered that it was essential to be present to purchase to prevent those bookworms, self-appointed experts of horses, gave him a four-legged ticket to the afterlife.

 

After several hours spent wandering around the large horse market periodically set up in a valley close to the fortified citadel of Masyaf, all the worst fears of the Grand Master materialized in the most beautiful stallion that had been seen since Arion had been drawn from the waves to will of Poseidon (1).

 

Tall and graceful, with small round feet, it looked like a statue carved by some god in the purest obsidian, so perfectly proportioned were its characteristics. The eyes were a soft mahogany color and the arch of the neck stretched with impressive elegance, emphasized by a thick dark mane. Its owner had adorned its refined head with a halter made of polished bronze beads and embossed silver plates and kept it separate from the other horses, exposing it with all the care that such a magnificent creature deserved to receive.

 

Even Malìk, who had joined them immediately before leaving for the market and who until now had seemed to understand Altaïr's point of view better than anyone else, had been bewitched by the beauty of the animal. All attempts to distract the group from the purpose of buying that horse had been unsuccessful and the undoubted skill of the seller in making the praises of this horse made the task even more difficult; the Grand Master saw his defeat approach, when even the stall manager admitted that such beautiful animals were rarely seen and that the possible character defects could be corrected with good and constant training.

 

Altaïr didn’t want to correct anything: that in front of his eyes was the four-legged ticket to the hell that he had imagined when he had made the sum of all the possible unwanted features that he could never accept!

 

"Come on Altaïr! Don’t be a child! Can you not see how beautiful that creature is?! "Malìk snapped sharply when Altaïr asked to speak privately with his first counselor, then moved to a secluded area next to a large fence so he could talk freely.

 

"Of course I see how beautiful it is" sighed the other exasperated, sliding his gaze on the other horses in the market ... and one in particular that he had noticed since early morning and that he kept secretly under control: "The problem is that beauty is its only merit! "

 

"So you do not think his movements are elegant?"

 

"Very elegant indeed: I’ve never seen any horse knocking out his rider with such grace" he replied waving a hand, unable to hold back the sarcasm: "and the movement of the head while biting at the boy who saddled him was pure poetry of the movement"

 

Malìk grunted in frustration, leaning an elbow on the fence: "they were clearly two beginners, they could not handle with it and they were punished, that's all. Once you show him who is the boss, he will calm down "

 

"If it doesn’t kill me before"

 

"Now, don’t start to dramatize! It’s young, and is clearly very fiery: it seems unable to stand still, so much energy is in his body "

 

"That’s not energy, it's fear: didn’t you see the eyes continually spinning to show the white? It’s too shady; what will happen when it is paralyzed due to a panic attack or will it go on to do a tantrum during a high-risk mission?"

 

"Altaïr, it's just a novice" Malìk cajoled, trying to make him think: he just couldn’t see why he refused to buy a horse for which many Assassins were willing to sell their souls. They also had the best horse-trainers available in Palestine, there was no animal that they couldn’t train.

 

"It isn’t inexperienced, I tell you; it’s a spoiled prince. I don’t think it's the kind of horse suitable for use that I need to do "

 

"And I tell you that it’s only repressed energy. And yes: it’s a prince of the desert, a rough diamond, just as you were until a few months ago" replied Malìk emphatically:" And, like you, it’s destined to settle down and do great things" he added with a little smile.

 

Altaïr was very devoted to Malìk, but when he tried to use flattery to cheat him, he seriously wanted tear that sweet smile with his fists. Especially since it was clearly an artificial behavior: Malìk never behaved so sweetly, he wasn’t a person lavish with compliments ... unless he intended to deceive someone of course.

 

Whenever the friend tried a similar tactic with him, Altaïr felt more insulted than when he was called "twice bastard (2) " or even more offensive terms; and even this time its had the effect of making him so enraged that he was hissing in reply the most cruel thing that came to his mind, without being able to stop until it was too late.

 

"And tell me Malìk, do you think he set down before or after provoking, as I did, a disaster like at the temple of Solomon? Would you really like to repeat the experience? Have you already thought of someone innocent to sacrifice at the stupidity of an idiot or do you think to improvise, leaving it’s the fate to choose who will be killed and who will be crippled?" He managed to stop before describing the rest of the tragic events that had been a consequence of the failure of that mission:" Sorry, I didn't control my words..." he murmured after, calming down and rubbing his eyes, embarrassed by his venomous outburst of anger.

 

Malìk abandoned his falsely sympathetic expression and sighed, chuckling this time more cynically and, for him, natural: "And I provoked you too much." He admitted: "I must apologize, too"

 

"Well then" the first councilor sighed after a moment of silence: "Let's start all over again. I'll be honest, I don’t understand what you see so wrong in that horse: it's beautiful, strong, fast and smart. If it were offered to me, I would not need to think about it even for a moment before accepting it "

 

"But I would intervene and prevent you from doing such nonsense. I intend to continue to go on mission, you know, and believe me if I tell you that neither you nor all Masyaf Masters Assassins will be able to talk me out of it" he added raising a hand to stop Malìk's protests:" So I cannot entrust my life and that of those who accompany me to an animal that I cannot trust. This isn’t a parade, you know better than me how often a good horse makes the difference between life and death on a mission, especially when you’re far from the cities and hiding places that they can offer. To work with a Assassin, a prince isn’t good, needs a brigand "

 

Malìk nodded: the friend's words were wise, and while it was a shame to let anyone else buy an animal of such beauty, more carefully reviewing the situation, he became convinced of the logic behind Altaïr's refusal.

 

"As you wish, then" he exhaled in a long, resigned sigh:" But we should propose a valid alternative before excluding the black stallion from the candidates for purchase. Do you already have any ideas? There was that beautiful white horse in the west of the mark .... My God, please, you cannot be serious" he moaned when, following the gaze of the Grand Master, he identified a horse - or something very similar - intent to fiddle with a flag mounted on the top of a lance belonging to a couple of templars, at the other end of the fence.

 

That thing would never ever be considered a good alternative to the black stallion: it could hardly be called an horse!

 

Altaïr was of a completely different opinion.

 

"That" Malìk attempted pointing at the animal with his thumb in a desperate attempt to say some sense in his friend: "it's a wild ass with ears cut off"

 

"You're judging the book by its cover" the other sneered, showing off that half-smile that pulled the scar on his lips so charming.

 

"Well, whoever decorated the cover of _that_ book had to have a terrible lack of inks and it’s clear that he tried to compensate in a very awkward way" Malìk replied dryly, trying to hire the older-brother-tone that he had tested to be obeyed by Kadar and that, sometimes, it could also have effect on Altaïr.

 

This time Altaïr laughed, completely immune to his friend's dark attitude.

 

The horse that interested him had, in fact, a very unusual color of coat: a wide hue of reddish browns faded from the top of the back to become creamy white on the belly, the chest and the end of the muzzle, then come back to darken on the legs (characteristics that actually remembered, the coat of an onager). To the strange arrangement of colors were added four shining white socks that reached the knees and the hocks and a broad strip of the same pure white that flowed from the forehead to the nose; all completed by a curious dark brown dorsal line, so clear as to appear painted, along the spine and shoulders.

 

However, what had most impressed Altaïr, was not the color of the animal (although he certainly liked it very much), but the character it showed had: it studied everything and everyone with curiosity, without showing too much fear for new things and seemed to take breaks, sometimes, to reasoning on what it was seeing; its movements were coordinated, elegant and calculated, of those who know very well where to put their feet. It’d never been shod by what could be deduced by observing the shape of the hooves and this, together with the shaved mane probably due to too many knots that tangled it, told a story of life in a semi-wild state, where only those who were strong and intelligent survived at any adversity.

 

Although you could not absolutely define it an ugly animal, the forms weren’t the most fascinating for an eye not accustomed to that kind of horse: extremely slender, remembered a bundle of willow branches with its dry tendons clearly visible under a mantle from thin but thick hairs. The legs were extraordinarily long compared to a thorax with a narrow circumference and a concave belly, the neck was thin but arched gracefully, and the muzzle lacked the elegant profile typical of Arabian horses. The tail wasn’t particularly thick or long, and it also looked like it had been shredded at several points in an attempt to free it from tangles beyond any possibility of redemption.

 

Finally it seemed to have a predilection for a pastime that even Altaïr adored and in which he was quite good; it’d in fact seen several times lean himself over the fence to try to play with any cloth draping, in particular it was attracted to flags and gonfalons who enjoyed snatching every time it had the opportunity, with the apparent objective to be chased by the owner of the fabric up to leave him breathless.

 

"Also I don’t even think it's a healthy horse: it's too thin. It looks like a mason's easel" Malìk commented skeptically.

 

"He’s very healthy; the appearance is typical of the breed: if I remember correctly it’s come from the area around the kingdom of Buhara (3), east of the sea of Sikim (4) "

 

Malìk snorted, intent on not letting himself be deconcentrated by the subtle attempt of the Grand Master to distract him by bringing the discourse on geography and taking advantage of the well-known passion of the Dai as a diversion to let him lower his guard.

 

"You don’t even want know why it attracts me so much?" Altaïr tried, without letting himself be discouraged by his reticent attitude.

 

The look with which the brother answered is saying a lot about what he's thinking and the "Spit it out" that he forced out of his lips was very similar to that of a father who listens his son while he tries to explain the reason he did something stupid.

But Altaïr saw a possible leak in his friend's guard and decided to try again: he didn’t intend to give up that horse so easily.

"Kindred spirits" and a sly smile were the only answer given.

 

Malìk, this time, took the bait: his gaze became more attentive and curious, and he abandoned the stubborn refusal that he’d assumed since he’d first seen the animal.

 

"I believe that a practical demonstration is more effective, and I also believe that it’s going to generate a rather interesting show; be patient, brother "

 

Malìk rolled his eyes, but gave at the strange horse another look just as he went on to the next stage of his plan: he had spent the last few minutes innocently fiddling with the Templar flag in the precise intent to test the reactions of the two Crusaders. When he was certain of the two men's disregard for him, he went into action: instead of using only his upper lip to move the fabric, he used his teeth to get a firm grip, then set a firm tug on the flag.

 

Surely the animal couldn’t have programmed the effect that the force applied at one end of the pike would have had that resting on the ground, but luck was smiling at him and the show that resulted was very impressive: caught off guard, the first Templar instinctively tightened the grip and stiffened the muscles of the arm to counteract the movement of the lance but, doing so, acted as a pivot transferring the strength of the recoil at the base of the pole that freed with a snap from the ground where it was slightly sunk to hit , in a violent burst, directly between the legs of the second Templar standing in front of him.

 

Both Assassins hissed, feeling an empathetic contraction of the groin in feeling the dull thud of the impact: there was no armor capable of blocking a blow from that angle, and the pitiful collapse of the poor man was a more than convincing proof.

The mischievous animal, however, didn’t pay the slightest attention to his unexpected victim, too busy dragging the flag as fast as possible, with the pike still attached, to the center of the fence where he immediately began to work to detach the fabric from its wooden frame.

 

The Templar who was still standing was clearly torn between the desire to help his companion and to take up the precious insignia, thus wasting long and precious moments staring alternately at the companion and the horse who, on the contrary, was giving a great carry out his plan. The wear had probably weakened the seam that joined the body of the flag to the strip of fabric with loops used to hang it on its support; when he had noticed that, the petty animal had promptly blocked the pike on the ground with the front hooves and began to pull the fabric with his mouth, concentrating the strength in the point that seemed more yielding and being rewarded soon by the noise of a slight tear.

 

Malìk had never considered horses to be particularly expressive creatures, but the thrill of pleasure and the expression of sadistic ecstasy that this particular specimen showed in realizing how the technique he devised was working perfectly, was so clear and recognizable that he tore a laugh that he hurried to hide with a cough: first he didn’t want to give Altaïr satisfaction showing him that he shared his fun watching the scene and, moreover, destroy the insignia was something morally unacceptable. Funny or not the scene, they always had to bring respect to the official insignia, they’re something sacred regardless of the deployment they represented.

 

Alarmed and horrified by the noise of the torn fabric, the surviving Templar rose from his trance and rushed to the rescue of the flag, leaving the other poor man to his solitary agony.

 

"No!" He shouted as he tried to distract the four-legged thief: "Bad Boy! Don’t do it!" But he stopped his charge when, evidently, he realized that his actions could create more damage: if scared, the horse could try to escape, completely lifting his head to be able to launch himself to a gallop and tearing completely the drape from its support.

 

Malìk covered his mouth with his hand while the Templar, more and more desperate, was performing in a hilarious attempt to negotiate with the abductor of his precious flag.

 

"Put it down" he ordered severely pointing at the ground.

 

Have you ever tried to scold a cat about to do something very wrong? For example, pushing a delicate ornament down a shelf or tearing a curtain in which it has just stuck its claws?

 

Well, the poor man got a very similar reaction: without abandoning his air of evil complacency and keeping direct contact with his eyes, the cruel animal lifted his head a few inches, leaving to be the " _rip-rip_ " of the cloth torn to answer for him.

 

"Noooo!" The other howled: "Wait" he moaned almost immediately, changing strategy: "Look: I have an apple. Do you want an apple, little nice horse? "

 

No, he didn’t want the apple. _Riiiiiiiip-rip-rip_.

 

"Please! The captain will kill me! "

 

It wasn’t his problem. _Rip-rip-rip_.

 

"Stop it now, ugly beast!"

 

On the opposite side of the fence from the two Assassins a small group of spectators was forming, interested in the drama that was taking place inside the fence and many began to laugh or throw mocking advice. Malìk was paralyzed with his hand over his mouth and eyes wide, undecided whether to be impressed, horrified or amused by what he was seeing. Altaïr was instead ecstatic and openly cheering for the horse.

 

The abrupt words of the Templar seemed to annoy the animal that frowned and struck a last tug at the flag tearing it badly and detaching it from the shaft. _So you’ll learn to speak to me respectfully_ , he seemed want tell to him.

Struck to the heart and wounded in pride the soldier charged with a furious bellow, grabbing only the dust and stumbling awkwardly into the pike still on the ground, because his target had dodged him at the last second taking advantage of an elegant dodge. He began an exhilarating pursuit during which the sadistic beast kept up the motivation of his victim by opening new glimpses in what soon turned into a ragged rag, every time the charges of the exhausted man lost their vigor. The entry into play of the second crusader, who in the meantime had managed to recover from the blow immediately, didn’t improve the situation except as regards the fun of the horse that now could play with two adversaries to make one stumble over the other.

 

"What do you think about it? Agile and intelligent, right? I find him perfect to enter at service of the Assassins "cheerfully chirped Altaïr after dodging a clod of earth hurled by one of the two soldiers in the vain attempt to hit the wicked creature who kept mocking him with discarded and busts speed changes.

 

 

"It seems crazy, arrogant and sadic" Malìk replied from behind his hand without being able to take his eyes off the absurd pursuit that was now being generated, the two poor Templars in fact, had asked the help of three other crusaders but for now they were only creating further confusion: "In fact, this demon looks more like you, compared to that noble animal that is the black stallion" he concluded finally managing to divert his attention from what was happening in the fence, to throw a cynical look at his friend.

 

Altaïr grimaced him: "You know I'm right"

 

"I know there's no way to change your mind" the Dai groaned.

 

Suddenly the show was interrupted by the horse merchant who, suspended the bargaining for the sale of the majestic black stallion to the confreres of Altaïr, approached with the intent to discover what was the origin of so much noise.

 

"Paaaaaan!" The big man thundered in a baritone voice: "what the hell are you doing ?!" as soon as he realized the trouble his horse was making.

 

At that point, neither of the two Assassins to keep even a small part of the laughter, but fortunately their sneering was largely covered by the explosion of shouts and laughter coming from the audience, gathered on the other side of the fence. There couldn’t be a more appropriate name of Pan, for a horse with that character.

 

"He ate our flag!" Exclaimed one of the two knights who had fallen for first victims of the harassing horse.

 

Pan stood still with an air of annoyance not far from the humans who accused him, the now unrecognizable flag hanging from one side of his mouth. _I didn’t eat it, I just chewed it a bit_ , he seemed want clarify.

 

 

"I think it will be appropriate to check the height from the ground of the banners of the fortress as soon as we return: Mohammed is a strong man, but he’s almost sixty years old; I don’t think his heart would manage many tricks like that" said Altaïr, referring to Masyaf's horse manager, as he waited for the altercation between the current owner of Pan and the Templars come to a point where he could enter and buy the animal without having to expose too much and be recognized as an Assassin.

 

Malìk replied with a fist to the shoulder of the brother, too busy to control his facial expression to formulate an adequate verbal response.

 

Unfortunately, however, the situation was rapidly degenerating; the Templars were clamoring for the slaughter of the spiteful horse for having offended the sacred insignia of their order and the merchant was in the grip: offending the Crusaders could mean running into more serious trouble than the seizure and the consequent suppression of one of the animals that he had to sell.

 

"The situation is getting bad for that poor devil" Malìk murmured, noting how the crusaders' spirits were getting more and more excited. Now even the merchant was in danger of being overwhelmed by the crusaders' vengeance, who obviously wanted to face up to their shame in an exemplary manner. Even Pan must have realized he really exaggerated this time, judging by the way he dropped the stolen banner and moved behind his current owner as if he were looking for his protection.

 

"Are you referring to the one with two, or the one with four legs?" Altaïr chuckled not worried: he’d just had a brilliant idea that would allow him to save the strange horse from a public execution, to divert the Templar's attention from the merchant so to prevent him being beheaded with his pestiferous animal, to force his councillors to buy the animal he wanted, to do so at a very convenient price and, finally, to provide Altaïr himself with a more than valid excuse to indulge a few hours of blissful and total solitude.

 

"Wait for me here, I'll be right back" was all he said to Malìk before trotting to the large canopy where the merchant used to entertain or bargain with customers and where he also exhibited a fair collection of harnesses to sell along with his horses.

 

He was greeted by the curious looks of the rest of the company and their questions about what was causing such turmoil, he pretended to have only partially followed the course of the matter because it was just a couple of buffoons that the merchant was scolding: he wanted to give the impression of not being particularly interested in what was happening in the enclosure to prevent his companions from becoming suspicious and decided to go and verify the situation, perhaps succeeding in some way to hinder him. He explained laconically that he had offered to come and get one of the bridles and left the canopy quickly, saying he was going to call the merchant because he had almost come to a decision with Malìk.

 

Returning to his first counselor, he casually tossed him the purse with the money he had stolen from the assassin who had received the task of keeping the money for the planned purchase.

 

Malìk immediately understood that it was not a good sign at all: "Altaïr, what ..."

 

"Do me a favour. When I’ve gone, you contract the price: you’re more able than they in this kind of thing" he interrupted pointing at his back, where the members of the council were still waiting and throwing more and more suspicious looks in their direction.

 

"Altaïr, you're about to do something immensely stupid, aren’t you?"

 

"Ah, don’t forget to add this to the bill" the Grand Master continued nonchalantly, showing the bridles he had taken from the merchant's show: "See you at the outpost at the entrance to the valley, wait for me over there. Alone, if possible" Before the friend had time to realize what he had planned, or even just started to get an idea, he climbed over the fence and reached the thrilling group in the middle of the fence.

 

He paced the horse to his left and offered him a fig as a sign of friendship, Pan accepted the gift this time: the stranger had no cloth to play with, it might as well have even a tasty snack. The bridle that he held on the arm also could mean leaving the enclosure and perhaps the human would have been more inclined to take him out for a long run if he behaved: he was really bored in the last two days, closed in that place where nothing interesting never happened.

 

Altaïr let the horse sniff him briefly as he scratched his neck, then carefully slid the straps around his muzzle and the bit between his teeth, ostentatiously ignoring what was happening between the Templars and the merchant.

He hadn’t taken a saddle with him because he didn’t expect to have time to secure it properly before triggering a reaction with his behavior, but it wasn’t a big problem: the horse wasn’t sweaty and the thin breast of the specimen would allow him to wrap the legs around it easily, giving him sufficient stability.

 

He mounted agilely on his back and set out to adjust the length of the reins when one of the Knights Templar finally detected his presence and interrupted the discussion with the merchant.

 

"Hey, you! What the hell are you doing? " Barked furiously.

 

Altaïr innocently shrugged his shoulders: "It seems obvious to me: I am stealing the horse"

 

He wanted to enjoy the shocked and incredulous expression of the man for a longer time, but every second was precious, so he pulled the tip of his hood slightly in greeting and firmly pressed the heels into the sides of the horse.

 

Altaïr tended to always leave ample scope for improvisation in designing his strategies, and this often led him to quickly solve very complex situations or trust in luck. In this case he’d to plead with the blindfolded goddess because, in the impatience of putting in place his "brilliant" plan, he had forgotten one detail: the enclosure was closed by a strong bolt and the fence was quite high, just to avoid animal escape. Not all horses jump obstacles and not all those who do jump anything, the Grand Master knew it well, but he remembered only after the first stride of his new mount. There had been no way for him to understand if Pan was a jumper by looking him only at a distance, so all he had to do was trust in good luck.

 

 

Pan was a jumper, thank God. A great jumper: the only reason he’d stayed in the enclosure, in fact, was to be aware of the fact that his owner had put the fence because he wanted him there, and being a creature with a willing and cooperative nature, he had decided to satisfy him.

 

The two, now free, darted through the market at full speed. The impotent shouts of the Templars quickly faded and Altaïr gave himself a chuckle, but he knew it wasn’t over: there were guards scattered throughout the market area specifically to catch any horse thieves and their daring escape from the fence had alert them surely. He was therefore not surprised when he saw four of them rushing around so as block the road he was traveling, armed with spears and halberds and ready to mow his horse's legs, in case he tried to force the blockage.

 

He forced Pan to an abrupt stop and looked around quickly, the stairs of a nearby brick house were certainly not ideal for a ride on horseback but the two were cornered and, behind them, you could hear the cries of the Templars.

Being shoe-free proved to be providential for the horse who managed to grab the hooves on the polished stone steps, and a considerable amount of unconsciousness helped him stay focused on the orders he received, allowing Altaïr to quickly drive him to the top of the stairs and then in a fast gallop along a narrow strip of roof made of stone, avoiding the trellis that would certainly not hold the weight of horse and rider.

 

The house was built against a rock wall at the base of the mountains that surrounded the valley, it wasn’t perfectly vertical, but too steep for the goats of the enclosure below to climb. Fortunately, Pan and Altaïr had to descend instead; perhaps at another time the young horse would have refused to do such a thing, but the cries of the chasing humans were too much like those of the hunting wolves he had learned to recognize as a foal and he knew how, in this kind of situation, the only hope of salvation was strictly and without hesitation follow the orders of the matriarch or the dominant stallion. The men had made him understand that they assumed the same role of command when they climbed on his back, and the one who carried now seemed know well what to do, so he followed his instinct and performed the order received: he lowered as much as possible, twisting the back flexed so as to align the front of his body with the direction of the escarpment and avoid tipping over on the side, then shifted the weight on the front and let the crushed rubble drag him down into a slide of about three meters.

 

 

The descent was certainly not one of the most elegant and, touching the ground, the goats that were darting terrified everywhere, made the steps of the horse insecure by stumbling. Altaïr left him for a moment to compose himself and shake off the dust of the small landslide they had caused.

 

"Good boy" he murmured, scratching his neck: "Let's finish the job well as we started it, hmm?"

 

An another leap led the two over the fence of the goats and allowed them to bypass the blockade of the guards that took too long to reorganize after seeing their prey evaporate in that unpredictable way. Pan and Altaïr were long gone when the soldiers were ready to pursue them.

 

The road that stretched before them was a wide, well-beaten track that connected the large urban centers in the neighborhood; Altaïr set a steady pace that at the same time didn’t tire his mount too much and traveled to follow a route that would allow him to return to Masyaf without going through the valley where the cattle market was held.

 

Until a few weeks ago the road had been completely cleared and without roadblocks, but things change quickly in a country besieged by so many rival factions. A wooden palisade stood before him so suddenly that he nearly crashed into it.

Surprised, he checked the points of reference he used to orient himself, seized for a moment by the fear of having gone wrong but no, he hadn’t been wrong, simply the construction of the crusader had somehow been left out in the information that had been delivered to him reports from the assassins who had the task of reporting the news.

 

"That's why I want to remain in active service" he grumbled to himself, allowing himself a grunt of frustration: that kind of ignorance was that which could make a mission fail, or turn one from simple and quick on paper to a real nightmare in practice.

 

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a movement at the edge of his field of vision. Five knights were coming out of the gate at that moment. Two of them mounted heavy battle steeds that did not constitute a threat, but the other three belonged to light cavalry and mounted slender Arabian horses. They had become immobilized when they saw him and Altaïr knew that they had also recognized him as Assassin, although they seemed a little uncertain as they were not used to seeing Assassins dressed in black.

 

 

"Pan" murmured adjusting the reins in his hand and placing your legs to get a better grip on the sides of his now sweaty animal: “I don’t know how fast you are, but I know how those three horses are. In this situation I cannot do much: we must rely on your paws, so try to do your best "

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**(1)-** There are so many versions of the birth of Arion (I refer to the mythological horse of course, not to the singer) and the exact chronology of its owners that I decided to choose only one based on my personal taste, not being an expert in Hellenic mythology and being therefore unable to understand what was the most ancient or widespread of legends. I apologize if it was not considered the most historically correct, moreover, in this story, this quote has only a marginal relevance and I hope therefore that does not compromise the development of the narrative.

 

**(2)** \- I have already dealt with in a previous story my theory on why Altaïr would carry the "surname" Ibn-La'Had, then I reproduce below the same note that I wrote on that occasion..

From what I have read, the name Ibn-La'Ahad means Soon of None, a foundling. Since at that time (as far as I know) among the Middle Eastern populations it was not customary to use the surname by preferring to identify individuals by indicating the name of the father, the place of birth or a peculiar feature of the person, Altaïr it may not have simply inherited this epithet. This seems to contradict what is said in the websites about the Assassin's Creed saga, where the name of the father of Altaïr (Umar) and his mother (Maud) is reported, specifying that Altaïr's father was himself a very skilled Master Assassin and well-known among the Assassins.

I also read that Maud was a Christian, so I thought that the name Ibn-La'Ahad could be an impersonation of an illegitimate son, rather than an orphan or a foundling: it’s unlikely that Umar and Maud could have married a regular marriage in as far as belonging to two different religions (for what I knew at the time it was necessary that one of the two spouses converts to the other's faith in order to marry), and Umar couldn’t recognize a child born of an unlawful union.

Without a father who recognized him officially, in my opinion, Altaïr could not become Ibn-Umar and people began to call him Ibn-La'Ahad.

In this case Malìk calls him "twice bastard" because Altaïr would be both a half-blood and an illegitimate child.

 

 

(3-4)- Altaïr is referring to the area of modern Turkmenistan and the Caspian Sea with the names with which they were known during the 12th century by the Middle Eastern populations. (If I understood correctly what I read on the internet)

The breed of horses to which he speaks is that of the Akhal Teke, which, according to some historians, is also that to which the great Bucephalus belonged: the horse of Alexander the Great.


End file.
